Kiss Me
by 332249
Summary: Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable. Unless you're Dean Winchester. Then its just the start of making new friends.
1. Kiss Me

Dean Winchester stood in line along the brick wall, staring at the taco truck's menu and trying to decide what he wanted for lunch. Just him. Sammy was of at Stanford being a nerd and Dad was off... somewhere being a Hunter. Which left the twenty-four year old in between gigs, a little hungry, and a lot alone. If Dad _were_ here, it wouldn't be a taco truck. If Sammy were around and in need of feeding, Dean knew he'd be ordering a pile of crappy vegetables that no amount of spices could make taste good for the kid. And a heart attack inducing cheesy goodness for himself (to annoy the health conscious little brother, of course!)

By himself... Well, Dean by himself had been learning what his own tastes were. Along his educational explorations, he had discovered that _real_ mexican food was awesome and queso must have been some Incan or Aztec god's gift to humanity.

Now, mere minutes separated him from the divine satisfaction. So, naturally, that's when it happened. Something that under normal circumstances, Dean wouldn't have minded at all.

She was hot. He noticed that first. After that, he noticed she was only a few years older than himself. The woman in question whipped around the corner at a dead run before skidding to a casual stroll. Dean's Hunter trained eye noticed the motion, though most of the lunch crowd did not. Green eyes met brown, and he cocked a questioning and subtly flirting eyebrow. The woman smiled, like she knew the same joke he did.

The questioning yet flirty eyebrow became a matched set of surprise when she casually peeled of a brown wig to reveal an eye-catching explosion of red curls.

Ah, Dean loved redheads. And brunettes. And blondes. Okay. So he wasn't actually picky.

Behind her, two bruisers rounded the same corner also at a run. Big and burly and one sporting a thick chained orthodox russian cross, Dean guessed they were russian mafia. Hunter buddy Caleb occasionally bought the big guns from their type.

When she saw Dean's attention shift behind her, the woman swore softly. Swiftly she rounded on Dean, tugging him halfway around until her back was against his wall. Without letting go, she puled him closer inside her personal space. The fact that his muscled frame obscured the bruisers' view did not escape his notice, but at her first words to him he almost didn't care.

"Kiss me," she demanded.

It wasn't the sexiest proposition he'd ever had, but let it never be said that Dean Winchester was one to question his good fortune. Without further question or hesitation, he leaned in. Because he knew why she made such demands of him, he brought his large hand to her cheek with his finger carding through those luscious curls, further hiding her from the crowd. His other hand caressed her back above the hip and pulled them flush together.

The woman didn't need to see the crowd to know when to subtly shift, always keeping Dean between herself and the mobsters.

Dean knew it and let her.

Hey, she was one hell of a good kisser.

Thug One and Two moved passed carefully, searching every face in the crowd. Naturally, four alert eyes passed over the couple making out by the wall. Their quarry wouldn't have anyone to stop and share a groping session with while running for her life. Right?

Dean and the woman stayed locked at the lips until the mafia men worked their way around the next turn and out of sight. Then she broke it off and leaned back with a friend-zoning smile.

"Thanks, that was fun,"she told him.

But before she could slip away, Dean tugged her back close to him.

Danger crackled in her eyes: all the warning he would get if her didn't let go of her soon.

"I'd let you go, Sweetheart," Dean drawled, aware of the dangerous ground he had put himself in. "But I'm a little worried that if I don't keep pressure on the bleeder on your back, you won't make it too far once the adrenaline let down kicks in."

He had felt the warm, wet trickle and knew all too well the temperature of blood.

Her eyes widened in surprise. She knew she'd been tagged in the botched exit, but the adrenaline had masked the extent of the pain she knew she would feel later. Now that he'd called attention to the fact, she could tell the blood loss would be a problem in short order. On top of that, this stranger picked mostly at random from the crowd 1, noticed 2, didn't freak and 3, added to her cover while camouflaging his first aid. There was more to this one than she had guessed.

"You know, most people shy away from a situation like this," she observed. But Dean could see the calculation and reevaluation going on behind those lovely eyes.

Lovely eyes. Sharp eyes. Deadly eyes, if needed.

"I ain't most people," Dean rejoined with his best boyish grin.

A soft laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. But she didn't move away from his embrace, or the pressure he was keeping on the flesh wound.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess you ain't the hospital type." He didn't ask.

But she answered anyway. "Not really, no."

"Figured." Dean looked out over the crowd, doing some quick thinking and calculations of his own. "I'm not gonna ask why the russian mafia is after you, because I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. Something tells me you ain't exactly clean in all this."

She smiled and shrugged and didn't argue.

"But, I don't like the thought of letting a pretty lady like you collapse from blood loss around here, either. You might be tough as steel when you're awake, but..." he trailed off.

He didn't need to finish. They both knew what happened to the defenseless.

"So where does that leave us?" she asked.

Dean grinned again. "That leaves me with a beautiful woman in my arms and the offer of a well stocked suture kit on the table."

"Is this where you try to impress the girl with being a world-famous doctor?"

"Nah, I've tried that shtick before. I don't got the years on me to make it believable," he answered with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. It might not have worked, but clearly he'd had fun trying. "I am a decent combat medic, though."

"That I believe," she conceded. He had the military man on shore leave look about him. She studied him again. "You know, that's all it will be, right? Stitches and then I have to get moving."

Dean tugged the woman off the wall and under his arm, like they were a head over heels couple out for a stroll, without ever letting up on her wound. "Yeah, you looked like you had places to be. No worries, sweetheart, you're my good deed for the day."

He strolled with her tucked up like that through the crowd, gradually taking on some of her weight as the adrenaline let down took its toll. Like they both knew it would.

"I'm Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester."

"Natalia. Nice to meet you."

 **A/N: This is as far as the plot bunnies took me. But I have a feeling it will percolate and grow...**


	2. Kiss Me Again

**Part 2**

Natalia Alinova Romanov liked to think she handled the unexpected well. People in her former line of work (and her remarkable similar current line of work) had to handle the unexpected, had to think fast and well on their feet. Or they wouldn't be in either line of work. Actually, if one didn't think on one's feet in either line of work, they wouldn't be breathing. Tom ay toe, tom ah toe, as her new American co-workers would say.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was nicer as far as puppet-masters went when it came to after mission treatment: better medical care, less severe accommodations while on base... people who honestly smiled. But in the field? In the field it was still her and her wits against the world.

Okay. Sometimes her, her wits, and Clint Barton against the world.

That... that she was still getting used to. This whole having a reasonably trustworthy ally idea. Ally, not friend. She was the Black Widow, she couldn't afford to have friends.

Besides, she wouldn't know what to do with one if she had one.

Natalia sighed. Defecting to S.H.E.I.L.D. wasn't as cut and dried on a personal level as she thought it would be. But she was a professional and a long-term survivor on the international intelligence playing field, she would adapt to the unexpected softer edge of her new employer.

And she'd do it without loosing her own sharpness, dammit.

Thoughts about the unexpected, adaptability, sharpness and allies whirled through her head even as the universe decided to drop a test case in her lap. Okay technically down the alley from her, but that was still pretty close to her lap. And really, what else would the universe do?

Above her, a glass window exploded outwards. In the middle of the glass a man followed suit butt first and nearly folded in half. The force of whatever sent him through the glass tossed him clear across the alleyway.

Natalia could hear his tail bone connect with brick. The momentum unfolded him and his head bounced off the same brick. She winced, that would leave a mark. Dazed though the man must have been, he still tried to recover as he fell. Strong fingers scrabbled for nearby window ledge or railings, but ultimately the necessary coordination wouldn't come. He slid down the story and a half of brick, no doubt collecting an impressive amount of road rash on his way down.

He hit ground with a thud, but not a bone breaking thud.

Groaning and growling, the man clawed his way up a trashcan. But his feet wouldn't stay under him (to his immense frustration) and the trashcan was the only thing keeping him upright. Finally he gave up on getting up and stayed clutching the trashcan, panting through the pain.

Natalia gave him points for effort though. She knew agents who would be out cold by now.

That's when he finally noticed his audience. Despite the numerous trickles of blood and the dilated pupil (yep, that's a concussion) the man managed to ask, "Kiss me?" in a only slightly slurred voice.

Natalia laughed. "Winchester." She hadn't recognized him under the blood, or rather hadn't gotten a good look at him before. Softer edged life really was beginning to make her slip.

Clanging above their heads interrupted whatever else she would have said. A man leapt out through the window now empty of glass to land on the opposing fire escape. Snarling, he leapt again with murderous intent in his eye, determined to finish what he had started on Winchester.

Dean let go of the trashcan at the first clang, landing flat on his back with a pained grunt. Adrenaline fueled hands produced a shiny Colt 1911. It barked three times at the man flying towards its owner. All three bullets hit center mass, but only one hit exactly in the heart.

The newly minted corpse had no where to go but down. It landed hard. On Dean.

All air rushed out of the young man's lungs which tipped the balance against him in his personal battle to remain conscious.

Which in turn left Natalia Romanov standing in an alley with a dead body leaking all over its killer. And only a few minutes to decide what to do before the police arrived, drawn by the sound of the gunshots. Walk away or help the man who once helped her?

The USSR's Black Widow would walk away and let his chips fall where they may.

S.H.E.I.L.D's Black Widow... hmm.

Natalia sighed. Why couldn't Winchester use a silencer? That would've given her more time to move him. He looked heavy.

…

Clint Barton didn't ask his new partner very many questions when she pulled up in front of their temporary safe house with an unconscious man in the back seat. He didn't asked too many questions when she told him to take the man's arms and help her get him to the room. Because he was " _chertov_ heavy!" (Though there were snide comments on who always seemed to get stuck with the heavy end of the load.) He didn't even ask why there was so much blood on the guy.

For all that, Natalia was grateful.

She didn't know exactly what she was going to say; how she was going to explain this.

Instead of answering complicated question like 'why', she settled to work with the med-kit. It took her half an hour to pick all the small bits of glass out, clean the wounds, and apply the butterfly bandages. Towards the end of her ministrations, Dean roused enough to mutter something that sounded like 'Sammy?'.

"Shh," Natalia admonished. "You're safe."

Dean mumbled something before drifting off again.

"Bringing home strays, Nat?" Clint asked mildly.

Without looking at her partner, she answered, "I had red in my ledger."

"Ah," Clint acknowledged. After a beat of consideration, he asked, "So how went the intel gathering?"

Relieved, Natalia made her report.

The S.H.E.I.L.D. agents weren't there when Dean Winchester woke up the next day. They didn't see him groan and rub at the goose egg on the back of his head. They didn't see him discover he was only in his boxers under the blanket and that all of his clothes were laundered and folded neatly on the dresser. They didn't see him lurch for the bottle of water and bottle of Advil before he bothered to put on the clothes. (Though they would have approved of him checking his weaponry for working condition before he stowed them away on his person.)

And lastly, they didn't see his reaction when he found the note she'd left behind for him:

"Room's paid up for a week. Now we're even."

It was signed with a kiss of red lipstick.


	3. Pow! Right in the Kisser

**Pow... Right in the Kisser**

Steve Rodgers wondered if 'biker bars' had always been like they were now. Brooklyn in the forties didn't have much to compare them to, but it seemed to him like everything from his original time had been cleaner somehow. The diners had been polished to shine in the sunlight. Women dressed with put-together dignity. While men tucked in their shirts and shaved thoroughly. (Unlike the next fellow down the bar. 'Dean' as he had told the waitress, with his flannel unbuttoned and probably permanent stubble.)

Some part of him knew it was pointless to wish to go back. Despite how far as technology had come while he had been frozen, time travel was not an option open to him.

But his was homesick.

He had thought, he had _hoped_ , that taking time off from S.H.E.I.L.D to roadtrip and reacquaint himself with the country he'd sacrificed so much for would help. Help make this new era his home, and feel like his home.

So far the results were mixed.

Steve sighed and turned his attention back to his beer. Realizing it was almost gone, he looked up to signal for another. That's when the lady's voice rang out across the room.

"Hey! Hands to yourself!"

One of the hairier bikers at the tables had yanked the waitress onto his lap and held her tight by the wrist. "C'mon, baby, just one kiss," he cajoled, leaning in to capture her lips.

She struggled to lean away from that less than well brushed mouth. "Sal!" she cried.

The bartender, Sal, hopped the bar to intervene, but was blocked by two of the biker lout's friends.

"Don't be like that," the lout sneered. "Its just one kiss."

When words would not penetrate, she let her actions answer for her by dumping the nearest pitcher of frothy brew over his head.

Enraged, he leapt to his feet and shoved her hard to the floor, her head bounced off the table as she went down. There was pure murder in his eye as he advanced on the downed woman.

Sal started struggling against the men holding him back, but wasn't up to the task of dislodging two men so much bigger than him.

Steve had seen more than enough. Quickly, he stepped in where Sal could not. "That's enough!" he sounded. A lifetime ago, that tone made soldiers everywhere snap to.

Here and now? It was still a call to arms... of sorts. A dozen men all wearing the matching motorcycle leathers proclaiming membership in the same club, hauled themselves to their feet. Pool cues and brass knuckles sprouted from nowhere.

Armed or not, he was Captain America; it would take more than a dozen men to stop him from doing the right thing. If nothing else, he had allowed the waitress to scramble away from the men and retreat behind the bar.

Behind him Dean muttered, "Ah, hell." A phoned beeped three numbers. Steve's super human enhancements let him hear the next few words, though he doubted they carried to the others: "Bar brawl. Snappers Grill. Hurry." His voice was urgent and commanding, but not panicked.

Then his chair scraped loudly on the rough floor. Dean clomped his way to Steve's side, legs bent and shoulders loose. "Heya, fellas. Seems to me that twelve to one is a little overkill, doncha think?" He paused and surveyed their reactions. It wasn't encouraging. "Or not." Then he met Steve's eye, gauging him. "Well, now its twelve to two."

A swell of pride rose in Steve Rodger's heart for this stranger who would stand up for what's right in those odds. For his willingness to risk a beating because it was the right thing to do. It may not be the cure for homesickness, but it gave him hope for this new time.

Then Dean _moved_. All six foot and change of his muscled frame barreled across the no man's land and slammed into the leader of the gang. His lead shoulder took him in the gut and he used the surprise and kinetic energy to lift the biker off of his boots. Dean kept his legs pumping and literally carried his opponent crashing through the front door out into the parking lot gravel.

Steve and the rest of the bikers rushed outside to get in on the action. It didn't escape Steve's notice that Dean had just moved the fight away from innocent bystanders and potential property damage. Brave and smart, this one.

Outside, Dean had the upper hand against the lout until the rest of the bikers threw in. Still, the man dished out more blows than he took. Then Steve waded into the melee and took on more than his share of the fight. Things were about to turn ugly, though, when the bikers began to abandon fisticuffs and pulled blades and a few guns from their pockets and belts.

Behind him, a gun shot blasted in the air. Dean's voice carried over the crowd as he bellowed, "Everybody put 'em down, or Cynthia gets it in the gas tank!" Sure enough, the motorcycle in question had 'Cynthia' proudly displayed in chrome detailing under the silhouette of a dramatically posed naked woman.

A sound of distress forced its way out of the lout's throat at the sight of the sawed-off shotgun pointed directly at his precious lady's most combustible spot.

In the sudden quiet, everyone could hear distant sirens getting closer.

"So here are our options. One. You keep coming for me and my friend here. Then I unload the other barrel in Cynthia where she'll never run right again. You try your best to beat the shit out of me for it, and when those sirens get here, you all get pinched for attempted murder.

"Option two. Everyone gets on their rides and hauls ass. I don't get bloody, but you don't go to prison." He stared the biker boss hard in the eye. "And Cynthia doesn't get a scratch."

Distant sirens flared in the darkness down the road.

With an oath, the lout waved his men down.

Dean backed up enough to allow access to his hostage, but never lowered the shotgun.

"I ever seen you again..." the lout growled.

"Yeah, yeah, dead and bloody in a ditch, I get it." Dean finally let the shotgun's barrel drop.

All around them, motorcycles roared to life before peeling out with a spiteful spray of gravel.

Steve turned to thank his ally for his support and congratulate him on his quick thinking. But before the words could come, said ally punched Steve in the arm. Hard. Right on the nerve bundle under the deltoid that made his whole arm ache. The man knew how to throw a punch.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" Dean demanded. "You don't pick a fight with the entire biker gang! Do you want to get planted?"

"He assaulted that waitress!" Steve defended. What was the problem? Dean obviously felt the same about the lout's behavior or he wouldn't have jumped in like he had. Clearly, he wasn't afraid of the fighting. So what was it?

"I know; I'm not blind!" Dean griped, stowing his sawed-off back under his jacket. "But what you do is toss some whiskey on your face and stumble over like you're drunk as a skunk. Then you trip and fall on the guy. While he's yelling at you, the waitress gets away. The douchebag will thump you once or twice for being an idiot, but that's less hits than I got in the brawl. Then the bartender will toss them or calls the cops to toss them. They leave because nobody wants more on their record if they can help it. Then you get a free beer as a thank you. If you're really lucky, you get some sweet waitress nookie when she gets off shift.

"That's what _I_ was getting ready to do before you stepped in it. Now the bar will have to keep an eye out in case those guys take it personal and come back."

Steve blinked. "oh."

"Yeah. Oh." Dean grumbled and rubbed his jaw where a bruise was already starting to form. "Pow... right in the kisser."

Steve thought about it. This happened often enough that Dean had a routine down? "But your way, he's never brought to account for his actions; he'll never learn that its inappropriate to treat people that way."

Dean gave him a Look. He was momentarily struck by the similarity to Bucky in that moment. "He knows, dude. He just doesn't care." He sighed. "His kind never do."

Steve clapped the man on the shoulder. "I care. Let me buy you the next round, to say thank you for standing up with me anyway. And I'm sure the waitress can find some ice for your... uh... kisser." Modern slang, yeesh. "What do you say?"

"You're not a fan of The Honeymooners, are you? You know, 'Pow...right in the kisser'? Jackie Gleeson?"

Steve blinked at the unusual response. "Uh, no. Is that a movie or a TV show?"

"Dude! Its classic 1950's black and white programming!" Dean exclaimed. "Come on. You buy me that round, I'll tell you all about it..."


	4. Kiss Kiss, No Bang Bang

**Kiss Kiss, No Bang Bang**

 _"Dad, I don't like this plan. Its risky... too risky. Even for us."_

 _"I know. I don't like it much either. But its the only play we have. Besides, I know you can handle it."_

 _"But Dad-!"_

 _"That's enough, Dean. You have your orders."_

 _"Yes, sir."_

…

Their last conversation echoed around in Dean's head, equal parts proud that his dad had so much confidence in his sniper abilities... and terrified that he'd screw this up. And get his dad killed in the process.

The devil worshipers they'd been tracking were good at disappearing the non-supernatural way. Distressingly, they were also good at putting together all the ingredients necessary to summon a real heavy-hitter of a demon. They had to be stopped, no argument there.

John Winchester, in his infinitely obsessed wisdom, had decided the best and fastest way to find their base of operation was to be captured and hauled there as a prisoner. Leaving his eldest son to follow the lo-jack in his father's boot heel.

So Dead did. Now he was waiting for the leader of these little psychos to show his face, sniper rifle ready to take the kill shot. After that, everyone would probably be scrambling too fast to line up any more at this distance. Good thing John had more than a few hidden weapons on him.

It was bad enough that Dean had to kill human beings; he didn't like killing people, even sleazeball people. But he really didn't like his dad on the hot seat like this. Too many variables. Too many things could go wrong.

Dean wasn't sure he could take loosing the other piece of his family.

His focus on the scope was so absolute, he almost didn't notice the other guy roll over the building ledge from the fire escape. (Though to be fair, the newcomer was exceptionally quiet on his feet.)

"Well, this is awkward," the newcomer murmured upon spying the younger man on his belly behind a rifle. He tapped his earpiece. "Control, this is Hawkeye. I'm on the rooftop, but there's a snag. Stand by."

"Find your own perch," Dean growled, with only a glance up. "I was here first." The almost-quiet-enough man was dressed in reinforced leather tactical gear, which meant he wasn't a cultist.

Hawkeye huffed a small laugh at the man's audacity. "What is this? Third grade playground? I'm government and I've got a hot target incoming."

"Good for you." Dean didn't shift a muscle.

"This is the only building with any kind of line of sight. You're going to have to move along." The man was less amused now.

"Yeah, I don't think so. You don't look like government to me." Because, seriously? Body leather does not usually go hand in hand with the FBI.

In response, the man unfolded a badge wallet. There was just enough ambient lighting to read the big letters across the top.

"SHEILD?" Dean read. "Never heard of you. If your gonna make a fake badge, go with CIA. At least then people would know who your trying to be."

Hawkeye chuckled. "Clandestine operations usually don't advertise."

"Eh, fair point," Dean conceded.

"You really are going to have to leave, though."

"Kiss my ass, G-Man," Dean suggested mildly. "That's my dad down there; I cannot miss this shot."

Dean heard a soft groan behind him and decided to risk looking away for a moment. So he saw the intent on the other man's face.

"Your dad, huh?" Hawkeye asked. "Well shit. Guess you're not moving. I hate collateral damage." The agent pulled a prong shot tazer.

Dean had already pulled his Colt. "You ain't hanging my old man out to dry. Not to mention the damage these people will cause if we don't stop them now." It was awkward, aiming a rifle and a pistol, but he managed to keep both steady.

"That's an M40A1. Its at least twenty years old. Its effective range is 800 meters _if_ its clean and in good condition. Your target window is what? Eight fifty?"

"I can make the shot!" Dean snarled. Yeah, it would be tricky. Yeah, he was nervous. No, he didn't have Sammy as spotter with the better scope they way he'd been trained to. But Dad depended on him, dammit. No way was he gonna miss.

The agent cocked an eyebrow in polite disbelief. Before Dean could argue some more, both his eyebrows furrowed. Like the man was trying to remember something he'd just realized he'd forgotten. "You're Nat's friend."

Settling his vision back on the scope of the rifle, Dean answered, "Yeah, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fair enough, she probably didn't give you her real name." The agent gestured a person's height just above his shoulder. "About yea high, red hair. Brought you back to our safe house unconscious and picked glass out of your back. Ringing any bells?"

"Oh. Kiss Me Kate." Dean remembered. "That was a few years ago."

"Yeah. But it kinda stuck with me. Nat never brings home strays like that." Hawkeye eyed the stubborn sniper. "You must have made an impression on her."

Dean shrugged. Honestly, he didn't think much of either time they'd met. Just a couple of blips on his country-wide radar of weird that was his life.

"You really think that antique is up to the job?" Hawkeye asked after a beat, stowing his tazer.

Dean likewise lowered his Colt. "Too late for second guessing now. But yeah. She's cherry."

The agent rubbed his forehead like he could feel a migraine coming on. "Coulson's gonna have my hide. How about this: I use my nice quiet bow to silently take the gunman on your dad. Then you go away and let me do my job."

Dean looked up from his rifle. Yep. There it was, on the guy's back. A compound bow. "Its got the range for that?"

"Mine does," Hawkeye bragged. "And its quiet as a lover's kiss."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, Double-O Seven, I get it: All Kiss Kiss, no Bang Bang."

But he was doing some fast thinking. It went against every fiber he had to give up his dad's safety to a stranger. But this guy wouldn't and couldn't back down, either. Fighting him on this would likely foul BOTH their missions here tonight. He doubted innocents bystanders down the line could afford a government agent missing his window of opportunity. John Winchester damn sure couldn't afford it here and now.

Deadly serious in face and voice, Dean finally answered. "You miss and something happens to my dad, you won't leave this rooftop alive."

Unperturbed at the threat, the agent agreed, "Fair enough."

Dean finally put the Colt away. "Its an honest to god devil worshiping cult down there. Real big on human sacrifice. They're responsible for the string of grisly murders around here. You're looking for the grand poo-bah in the flashy robes with a knife that couldn't possibly be useful anywhere else but the skeevy evil ceremony."

Hawkeye nodded his understanding. "Do you mind taking the north wall? Let me know if a car with diplomatic plates pulls in early." The agent settled into a crouch with his bow ready, watching John without the benefit of a scope.

Dean supposed an operational name like 'Hawkeye' wasn't because it sounded cool.

The Hunter took his spotter's scope to the north wall to take up the agent's vigil.

Silence reigned for about a minute before Hawkeye chuckled softly in the dark.

"What?" Dean demanded.

"Next time you see Natalia, if you ever see her again, I dare you to call her 'Kiss Me Kate' to her face. I dare you."

Dean laughed softly. "I ain't that kind of crazy, dude."

 _... Post Script..._

 _"That's the last of the bodies. Let's salt and burn the lot and get out of here."_

 _"Yes, sir."_

 _"By the way. Dean?"_

 _"Yes, sir?"_

 _"What in the hell was with the arrow?"_

 _"Uh... Heh. Funny story that..."_


	5. Get to Kissing

**Get to Kissing**

It was a cold, wet, miserable evening. It wasn't raining; or at least, the precipitation was heavy enough to be called rain. Humidity and mist hung heavy in the air, soaking through most of the layers Bruce Banner was wearing. He shivered and burrowed deeper into his jacket (which was far, far too thin for this weather). He didn't want to be out here in this.

But after everything... the lab accident... Becky... the Other Guy coming into existence... the U.S. Government taking his Other Guy badly...

It had been a bad couple of years. Culminating with Dr. Bruce Banner, the most promising guy in his peer group and brilliant scientist, on the run. Whatever money he had started with was long gone which forced him to to resort to sleeping on benches. And getting rousted off of his chosen bench for the night. The patrolmen had been polite about it: move along, fella, or spend the night in a holding cell. "Move along" evidently meant all the way out of town in a town where there were no buses.

At least trudging down the side of the empty country highway while shivering in the miserable wet-cold wasn't a trigger for the Other Guy. Cold comfort, that.

A big-engined old boat of a car pulled over in front of him, the first car he'd seen in over an hour. The driver leaned over and popped the passenger door open. "Dude, I need a hot cup of coffee just looking at you."

Bruce had to laugh. "I don't suppose you have one?"

The driver, a man in his mid-twenties, scooped up a cardboard carry case with an untouched cup. "I was expecting to drive all night, but I can pick up another one. I think Kissing is another forty-five minutes up the road." Green eyes twinkled mischievously. "Or, if you're worried about possible cooties, I can give you a lift to get your own. Because, damn, this ain't no kind of night to be out here."

Gratefully, Bruce climbed into the old car. Inside was delightfully warm already. The offered cardboard coffee cup did amazing things to his fingers and the steam brought feeling back to his nose. Somehow, the cheap gas station brew masquerading as coffee tasted down right heavenly. His chauffeur let him soak in the warmth for a moment before introducing himself as Dean.

Dean glanced over at his passenger, and Bruce felt a tiny flurry of self-consciousness. He knew he looked like a hobo. Hell, he _was_ a hobo. How had life come to this? But all the man said was, "There's a blanket on the backseat, if you want it. And most of a bag of jerky, if you're in the mood for something to chew on. Its got some kind of chili and lime on it, though, so don't get your hopes up. There's a reason I haven't eaten it yet."

Bruce's stomach gave a small gurgle of approval at the offer of food. Any kind of food. He wrapped in the blanket and accepted the jerky. "I'm Bruce, by the way. Thank you. For the coffee and the ride."

Dean stared out at the dark road in front of him. "Lemme guess, Barney Fife back in Nowheresville didn't like how you added to the ambiance of his quaint little town and told you to move it or he'd find you somewhere to be out of the way."

Bruce sighed. "Sadly, yes. I never realized before how well policed small towns were. I take it you have experienced the same phenomena?"

Dean shrugged. "A time or two. I really hate it when you've _finally_ found the comfortable spot in the car, and you're just about to drift off, and _that's_ when Smokey finds you. It like he was waiting for that moment to flick on the old mag-light and whack the window as close as he can to your head. I mean, would it kill the guy to wake you up easy?"

Bruce thought back to his own experiences. How many times had a patrolman seen him curled up in an alleyway and kicked his feet to roust him? Was the kicking really necessary? When he'd bothered to think about it beyond how miserable he was, Bruce had always assumed it was for the officer's safety or something. Now, he felt naive.

But warm and naive, which was still an improvement over cold and miserable.

"Yeah, that's why I stick to no-tell motels whenever I can," Dean continued blithely on. "Skeevy as hell hell, sure. But no one bothers you until check out time."

"Hotels require ID," Bruce muttered around the hunk of jerky. It wasn't great, like the man had said, but it was much needed calories. When he wasn't the Other Guy, Bruce was loosing weight fast. He never ate great when he was neck deep in a science project, but Becky had always dragged him out to get food when he came up for air. Damn, he missed her.

Dean (oblivious to Bruce's internal meanderings) obviously spoke Mutter. "Not the skeevy ones," he contradicted. "Besides, every teenager with a grudge against authority knows how to get a fake ID."

Bruce looked in askance at his Good Samaritan. Didn't it bother him that he had a man in his car that couldn't use his real identity? It would seem not. "I guess I wasn't that kind of kid."

Dean looked over his passenger again. "Aww...! That's no good. Everyone should have a fake ID at some point in their life. Tell you what. If you want, when we get to Kissing I can-"

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "Get to kissing?" he repeated, tone light and teasing. "Really? Even with the chili lime beef jerky breath?" He couldn't help it. The world may have turned up-side-down, but he still had some sense of humor buried in there.

Dean face-palmed (while driving and didn't swerve.) "Oh, God. That came out wrong."

"I'm relieved," Bruce drawled with a small smirk.

"When we get to the next town," Dean soldiered on, "I will get you set up with your very first."

"Do all of your fares rate a complimentary crime?" Bruce laughed.

Dean shrugged. "Let's just say my usual partner in crime is happy with his life at Stanford and I might be missing the kid." Then his face blanked out, like he said more than he meant to.

"Stanford, huh? Good school."

"Full ride," Dean bragged. There was real pride in his voice, but even Bruce who knew next to nothing about the guy could tell he wanted a new topic. This absent partner in crime was clearly a sore subject for him.

"Nice," Bruce complimented, meaning it. Stanford was a quality school. But Bruce didn't like talking about college days and friends left behind any more than Dean seemed to. Lots of bad memories attached to the idea for him, too. A change in subject would be best for both of them. "So... I take it you were the one with the grudge against authority?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I had my share of head-butting with teachers through high school. And cops. Like this one time, when I was like fourteen, I..."

Bruce let the other man's words flow over him. Dean was a good story-teller and his past antics had them both laughing in short order. An hour ago, Bruce wouldn't have thought that possible. But here they were. In helping a random man on the side of the road, Dean had brought laughter into the world.

It was something for Bruce Banner to think about: the good that comes from helping people, even when you can't help yourself.


	6. KISS in Concert

**KISS in Concert**

Man, Dean really hated these monkey suits. He didn't know why he let Sammy talk him into one, except that the kid was back in the hunting saddle and Dean would give a little to keep him happy. But then that big brain of his processed the fact that it would take more than misdirection and a smile to pull off Homeland Security credibility. College-Boy hadn't been wrong... But Dean still hated the massively uncomfortable monkey suit.

Still. No matter how much he hated it, how uncomfortable the nice clothes sat on his back, he had to admit that the monkey suit made it a lot easier with the convincing people of whatever story he was selling.

However, it was _not_ useful to all occasions.

Like trying to sneak into a KISS concert.

Ticket scalpers hawking their wares on the sidewalk saw the clothes and promptly doubled the asking price. Which he couldn't afford. Event security saw a weirdo in a suit, sticking out like a sore thumb, and couldn't help but keep an eye on him. Which meant he couldn't sneak in, either. (His usual method at concerts.)

 _Dammit, Sammy!_ Dean mentally groused. That last hunt had been messy and ruined all of his usual hunting attire. Leaving him with the choice of either showing in blood-splatters (honestly it might pass at a KISS concert, _might)_ , being late enough to miss the grand opening, or wearing the fed suit. Sam had decided to wait on clean clothes... and take care little details like eating something at some point that day. So, he'd find himself a discount ticket later, if he bothered to come at all once the post-hunt upswing finally dropped him flat.

So here Dean was, on time, but still not getting in thanks to the freaking monkey suit.

Dean was about to give up entirely when a limo pulled up. Out stepped Tony Stark (who was a lot shorter in person than Dean thought). He recognized the billionaire, of course. There might have been drool when he saw some of those Stark Industries weapons designs in Guns and Ammo.

No, those guns weren't practical for Hunting. No, Dean couldn't afford them even if they were. But a man could dream.

All around Stark, big beefy men in black suits cleared the fans and the paparazzi back.

That was all the opportunity he needed. Smooth and easy, Dean slide into the suit formation. Arms spread to his sides, he made a human barricade to force back the throng.

Ah, the power of uniforms. The bodyguard contingent assumed he belonged to the venue. Site security assumed he belonged to to the bodyguards. No one challenged his right to be there. Dean followed the CEO into the back hallways of the rock concert.

Yes! He was IN.

The entourage made it about twenty-five feet down the hall before Tony Stark stopped dead in his tracks. After a beat, he turned around in a small circle.

"Huh. Happy?" the billionaire gestured to his head of security. "Something in terribly, horribly wrong."

The shorter, portly man looked around suspiciously, but didn't see anything amiss. "What?"

"My symmetry," Stark explained. "Its all off." He paced another circle. "All off. Pepper knows I only like an odd number of humorless security around me when we have to hire extras. Its the best arrangement to keep me looking awesome when the cameras are clicking. I like to keep things odd. We were all odd when we loaded up at the mansion. Now we're not odd. And I find that odd. We aren't odd enough. Why aren't we odd anymore?"

Happy blinked in befuddlement. "You're acting pretty odd, boss."

Tony Stark turned in a circle one last time before his gaze fell on Dean. "No, I'm pretty sure he's the odd man out."

Dean gave a weak grin and an even weaker laugh.

Tony's eyes narrowed in thought. "Why are you wearing a suit at a KISS concert?"

"Uh..." Dean glanced down at himself. He wracked his brain for a moment, then decided to go with a form of the truth. "I got off work late and didn't have time to change?"

"Is that an answer or a question?" Tony looked him over again. "Wait. You actually go to work in that suit? That's a terrible suit! It can't possibly be comfortable. Who would volunteer to wear that? _Why_ would you wear that?" He cut himself off mid-rant and stared at Dean some more. "That doesn't explain why you and your god-awful suit are following me."

The bodyguards all bristled, realizing at last that Dean could be a problem they might actually be able to manhandle.

Tony continued, seemingly oblivious of his people's reactions. "Seriously, its like, I'm more scared of that suit than I am of the fact a man so much bigger and more muscled than me is stalking me. There's probably a flaw in my logic there. I'm sure Pepper will point it out to me later. Why were you following me?"

"I'm not following you!" Dean hedged, edging away from his former fellow suits. "I was sneaking into a KISS concert. Now that I'm in, I'd be happy to leave you alone. I can figure out my way to the mosh pit from here."

Tony Stark pondered Dean's words for a moment. "You wore _that_ suit to sneak into a KISS concert." He turned to Happy. "I'd call him crazy, except that it actually worked. Besides, I think I kinda like him. He thinks outside the box. How much trouble do you think I'd get into with Pepper if I invited the kid to party with us?"

"Uh..." Happy gulped. "Less than the Lamborghini incident, but more than the Chicago debacle."

Dean couldn't help himself or the grin. "Dude, you have _got_ to tell me those stories!"

Tony Stark laughed at the demand. "You know what? I'm pretty sure Pepper likes yelling at me anyway. Come on. So, Chicago. It was a few years ago..."

Dean's grin took over his entire face.

Sammy was going to be so freaking jealous!

 **A/N: I wrote Tony Stark's lines while trapped in an ATM kiosk with a busted lock, on ATM receipt paper, while waiting for the technician. I had nothing to consume that day except for a slice of pizza and caffeine. A lot of caffeine. Which was a bad idea, given I couldn't leave to find a bathroom. Good times. Boredom, confined spaces and caffeine gave me a really good place to write Tony Stark from.**


	7. Good Luck Kiss

**Good Luck Kiss**

"Father, are you sure this is necessary?" Thor asked, caught somewhere in between trepidation that the wise All-Father was right and incredulity. He had no reason to believe Odin was wrong; and history had certainly proven that the King of Asgard was _not_ prone to overreactions. Yet, for all the battles Thor had fought defending his home and his people, he had never truly believed that anything or anyone could in fact harm his world.

Asgard always overcame, either by his father's great wisdom, his mother's cleverness, his own strength of arms... even occasionally by his little brother's craftiness. Together as a family, what could truly challenge them?

"As loath as I am to agree with my dear big brother," Loki drawled, "this does seem a tad bit excessive, doesn't it?"

Despite the dread hanging over her head, Freya managed to laugh. "If we weren't sure things were dire before, we are now. The world must be ending, for this has never happened before: on this day Thor and Loki of Asgard have agreed on something."

Thor snorted and Loki huffed in annoyance.

Odin All-Father ignored the by-play of his family, focused as he was on the task at hand. Carefully, the old Asgard worked. Every bit of power that Asgard could muster was being channeled here, into the old Planet-Shield designed by Odin's grandfather. It had not been used since the day it was completed, but it alone had any hope of protecting their planet from the energy wave created when two archangels went to war with each other.

"The Volva is never wrong, my sons," Freya reminded gently. "If the old Seeress says the archangels have begun their apocalypse, then it has. You both saw and felt the pulse of energy when the Morning Star broke free of his prison. That was a fraction of his capabilities. A mere fraction." she reiterated. "He has since regained his full strength."

Odin spoke up then. "I have seen this being up close, when your Lady Mother aided me in projecting my awareness into the avatar I left behind on Midgard. I and the other kings of the old guard came together in hopes we could avoid this. We failed. It was a slaughter."

"But Father," Thor objected, "Your avatar is not nearly as powerful as you truly are. Surely-?" Thor cut himself off. He honestly could not force the words past his lips that his father was less than capable. Of anything.

"I would be able to accomplish more in person?" Odin finished. "No, my son. I saw what I needed to know."

"Don't forget it is no longer only the one," Freya added. "If we try to stand between Micheal or Lucifer now, we would be fighting all the angels of their realm."

"So we don't fight, we mediate," Loki reasoned. "Our great father has negotiated peace between the most ancient of enemies before."

Freya smiled sadly at her two sons. They were still so young, really.

A sad twist on the lips also graced Odin's face. "I have learned, in my great many years, that very little in the universe can stop two brothers from fighting when both feel wronged."

Both princes of Asgard squirmed under their father's one-eyed gaze. Neither would meet that stern eye, or each others'.

Odin continued. "The shock waves produced between the archangels will destroy nearly all life on Midgard in the first minutes. From there, it will expand, stretching into the rest of the galaxy. Within hours it will reach us here in Asgard. But first, the Bifrost will collapse under the onslaught and strand us here. Without the Planet-Shield, our world will tilt on its axis and wobble out of its orbit. After that happens, it is only a matter of time before our home becomes uninhabitable."

"We can only hope that the Planet-Shield will hold its strength longer than the archangel brothers take to kill each other," Freya added. "The Volva was unsure how long the battle would last. Or who will win."

"So we wait to throw the switch at the last possible second," Thor realized. "And... wait as our fate is decided?" His rage at the situation and his own helplessness grew. Given the option, Thor would rather die on Midgard, fighting these 'angels' himself rather than waiting here to see if they would all die. But that would not be his fate today. Today would test his patience. And his cardiovascular health, it would seem. He knew his rage showed in the red of his face.

"Morality comes hardest to those of us who live the longest," Odin mused softly. He turned his eye to Freya. "A kiss for luck, my dear wife?"

Gently, but no less passionately for its tenderness, Freya pressed her lips to her husband's. Both knew if this venture went wrong, this might be their goodbye kiss.

"My Queen," Heimdall rumbled, speaking for the first time.

Freya crossed to the Gatekeeper. She closed her eyes and lay a hand on the side of his face. A 3-D psychic display flickered to life in the room with them, showing the scene lightyears away. Grimly, the Asgardians watched as Micheal and Lucifer met on the battlefield. To Heimdall's amplified sight, the archangels glowed almost blindingly white with only the foggiest outline of the human bodies that tried to contain them. Odin's hand tightened on the controls.

They watched in surprise as a fragile human dared to place himself in between the archangels.

"Dean Winchester." Heimdall's voice betrayed his lack of surprise. The Gatekeeper had been keeping a close eye on the situation for the last year, after all.

They watched the scene unfold, watched the other human and the weaker angel die. They watched the fragile Dean Winchester take the beating all the while speaking the words to reach his brother, and watched as the light of the Morning Star dimmed when those words reached their mark.

They watched as Dean's brother took control, as the two archangels fell, as the danger ended.

Tears broke from more than one eye as the pitiable scene of Dean Winchester, victorious yet broken, faded from the room.

"We will honor these Winchesters," Odin declared. "A great celebration to honor their bravery and their sacrifice. They will be remembered for as long as Asgard remains."

Arm in arm, king and queen swept from the room to tell their people all was well.

Loki shook his head, staring at the empty space. "A human. A mere human."

Thor looked at his parents retreating forms, considering. "That was one effective good luck kiss."


	8. Kiss My Grits!

**Kiss My Grits!**

Nick Fury stared down glumly at his bowl of grits. He honestly didn't actually like the foodstuff and no amount of butter or brown sugar made it that much better. But when you stop at a roadside diner with the name 'Kiss my Grits!' proudly proclaimed across the entire restaurant front, it was a little inevitable that the waitress would bring you a bowl. One came with every breakfast item. All he wanted was a cup of coffee and some eggs, for crying out loud.

No. All he wanted was to turn back time and make his current situation not true: S.H.E.I.L.D was dismantled by Hydra from the inside and one of his oldest friendly acquaintances had turned on him. His life's work in ruins. On the run. Once he was one of the most quietly powerful men in the world... and now he couldn't even convince a minimum wage jockey to leave the freaking bowl of mealy imitation cardboard in the kitchen.

Kiss my grits. That classic southern phrase seemed to sum up his life at the moment.

Fury wasn't feeling so sorry for himself that he forgot to pay attention to the diner around him and the street beyond that. It would take more than mild depression before he stopped doing that. He had noticed the bigger muscled men at the booth next to him and he had noticed that they were both armed. But at best they had a single pistol each stuffed in the back of their pants. Local yokels, plenty common this far south. Although that didn't explain why the stockier of the set plopped himself down in Fury's booth when his friend hit the john.

Instinctively, the former spy lay a hand on his gun.

"Oh, relax, dude," the yokel drawled, showing his hands and harmless intentions. "I ain't about to go Pumpkin and Honey Bunny on you or the diner."

Fury didn't move his hand, but he didn't escalate either. "I have trust issues."

The yokel chuckled. "Yeah? Raisin cookies masquerading as chocolate chip cookies are the reason _I_ have trust issues. I ain't gonna ask why you do."

"That's probably wise," Fury acknowledged.

"You know, I know its not any of my business. But dude, seriously?" The yokel had the audacity to give him a condescending look.

Fury returned the look with a pissed-off one of his own, a look that had cowed greater men. It didn't this one. The guy must have zero sense of self preservation. "What?"

"I don't even know where to start. Between the sunglasses on inside when you're not blind, the hoodie up when its not cold, and the 'fuck off' stamped on your forehead," he gestured to his own head. "You practically had a neon sign floating above your head that screams 'Don't notice me!' Come on, man. They whole time you were sitting here, I heard Elmer Fudd whispering, 'Be verwy, verwy qwiet! I'm being hunted!'"

Fury's grip tightened.

"Relax!" the yokel admonished. "I don't know who you are, or what you're running from. And I don't actually care all that much. I just had to take a minute to tell you that you kinda suck at fitting in."

Fury felt his eye widen in shock. "Come again?"

He enunciated each word. "You suck at hiding. Dude. Ditch the hoodie. If you need to hide the male pattern baldness, get a watch cap. Not a baseball cap, people always check the baseball cap to see if you're a fan of their team. And the sunglasses? Can you look like more of a pretentious douchbag? If you're set on the glasses thing, go clear."

Fury scowled. Wordlessly, he slid his glasses down his nose a inch. Just enough to show his bad eye.

The yokel blinked. "Okay, point. Sunglasses trump eye patch. Good call on that one."

"Ya think?" Fury drawled, pushing his glasses back into place. "What makes you such an expert, anyway?"

He shrugged. "Been framed a few times. And got put on the receiving end of a nation-wide manhunt. That sucked."

"How'd you hide?" Fury asked, curious now in spite of himself. The former S.H.I.E.L.D director made a point of keeping himself current on the FBI watch list, as well as several other less-public agencies. He didn't recognize the guy sitting in front of him. "Cosmetic surgery?"

The yokel grinned, all straight white teeth, a grin meant to make a waitress swoon. "Nah, this handsome mug is entirely home grown. No, you wanna know what I did? What me and my brother did?"

Fury nodded.

"Nothing."

"Come again?" Fury asked.

"Not a damn thing," the guy told him. "We laid low for a couple weeks then went back to work. Didn't change my clothes, my hair. Didn't grow a beard. Only wore sunglasses when I had a hangover. No one noticed. People are not that observant."

Fury snorted. "The people coming after me are that observant."

"Maybe," he conceded. "But did you notice how that waitress, who is the very definition of 'bubbly', barely talked to _you_?"

He had.

"It's because everybody can tell something is off with you, man. Look around."

Fury to a moment to look. Really look. Body language alone said these people were wary of him. No one would look him in the eye. Fury would be willing to bet that if any one came in here tomorrow, flashing his picture and asking questions, most of them would recognize him. Damn. The yokel had a point.

"The people coming after you don't _have_ to be observant. You stick out like a sore thumb."

Ruefully, he ran a hand over his head to knock the hood back. "Watch cap, huh?"

The yokel's friend reappeared from the bath room. "Dean? We good?"

"Yeah, Sammy, all paid up. Let's hit the road." Dean, as it were, slipped out of the booth. Looking down at Fury, he said. "Watch cap. Real clothes, stuff you're comfortable in. And if you can manage it, smile now and then. People refuse to believe dangerous people can be friendly. Dunno why." He shrugged. "Any way. Good luck, buddy."

"Thanks." And in a way, Fury was thankful. That Dean Yokel had given him a lot to think about.

 **A/N: For those of you not from the US south: 'kiss my Grits' is a slightly more polite version of 'kiss my ass.' It was popular enough to become a tag line for the TV show "Alice," an 80's sit-com set in a diner.**


	9. The KISS Principle

**The K.I.S.S. Principle**

Sometimes Dean felt bad for not being able to do more. Sure, he and his brother saved people all the time by hunting monsters, and that was a good thing. But the majority of people walked in this world without ever knowing about the supernatural, without knowing about the small army of Hunters working thanklessly in the dark to save them. The majority of the world had much smaller, more personal problems.

Take tonight for instance: here he was, monster-hunting badass lurking in an alley and waiting for his brother to flush the Harionna out of the building. The thing had been a pain in the ass to track down and Dean doubted they would get a second crack at this thing if he missed tonight. Which left him with his current predicament.

Down the alley, three barely legal wanna-be gangsters were trying to break into a fairly nice black SUV. It was a little new for Dean's taste, but it had a decent engine. Ordinarily, Dean would take the time to put the fear of Winchester into the morons. Sure, he and Sam jacked cars all the time; but they did it for the greater good. Sadly, tonight he didn't dare leave his post.

Stupid murdering Japanese hot chick.

All he could do was stand and watch the yahoos ineffectually scratch up a perfectly good paint job.

"Uh, excuse me?" a polite voice interrupted Dean's thoughts. But it wasn't speaking to Dean, the small man in a neat business suit and not a lot of hair on top was addressing the carjackers.

All three young men startled back. One abandoned his slim jim in the door window. It stood quivering, making a guilty rattle.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but notice you're having car trouble," the suit continued, placidly unaware of the threatening body language and criminal intentions. "I have some experience with vehicle maintenance. Maybe I can help. What seems to be the problem?"

Dean nearly face-palmed. Good Samaritan the suit may be, but the guy was absolutely clueless. Oh well, at least the crooks probably wouldn't hurt him if he becomes an accessory to the crime. Jail time might be a problem later, but he'd be physically safe.

The three glanced back and forth between them. No one seemed to know what to do with the nerdy little guy. Finally, the one who'd abandoned the slim jim spoke up. "We locked ourselves out of the car," he explained, gesturing at the SUV.

"Yeah," his buddy chimed in his support. "We borrowed a friend's slim jim, so we could try to jimmy the lock."

"I see," the suit murmured. His smile had turned from bland polite to... wry? ironic? Something else, something too subtle for Dean to read clearly at the distance. But whatever it was, it made the Hunter wonder. And wary.

Calmly, the man strolled up to the group and wriggled the slim jim loose from the window. "Have you gentlemen ever heard of the K.I.S.S. Principle?"

Again, the three glanced at each other, before shaking their heads no.

"K.I.S.S. Its an acronym. It stands for 'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'" The man laughed gently. "Personally, I think there has to be a better word than 'stupid' but that's the standard phrase. 'Stupid' is rather insulting for a widely accepted phrase, isn't it? But I digress. The K.I.S.S. Principle, sometimes referred to as 'Ockham's Razor' states that the simplest, most straight forward solution is often the best solution."

The three glanced around one more time, clearly completely in the dark as to what the little bald man was talking about and why he was telling them this weirdness.

Dean didn't actually blame them this time. He'd heard the acronym K.I.S.S. before and knew what Occam's Razor was, thank you very much Sammy. But he didn't see how the dude was applying the principle to car theft. Or even emergency roadside assistance, like the guy claimed he was offering.

"What the hell does that me?" Slim Jim finally demanded.

The suit's smile widened fractionally. "It means, the best way into a locked car is with the key," he explained patiently.

The third and silent friend rolled his eyes and spoke for the first time. "We ain't got the freakin' keys, man!"

"Ah." The man nodded. "That's alright. I do." So saying, he drew a key fob from his pocket and pressed the unlock icon. The SUV gave a cherry little acknowledgment beep and a click.

All three stared at the blinking lights.

Before Dean could laugh at the car owner's audacity, the unoffensive businessman _moved_.

A slim jim is a wonderful tool for breaking into a car. Turns out, it can also double as a sap as needed. It only took one precision strike each to fell the carjackers.

The suit dropped the slim jim on the leader's chest when his phone rang. "Coulson." There was a pause. "Yes, May, I have the package." He listened for a moment then glanced around at the men on the pavement. "In the future, we need to find a better parking spot. This is the third time I've had to defend my exit vehicle." There was another pause and Coulson laughed. "True. See you back at the Bus." He hung up.

"Dude!" Dean exclaimed from down the alley, loud enough for this Coulson guy could hear him. "That was classic! 'It means the best way into a locked car is with the keys.' Freakin' awesome!"

Coulson blinked in surprise at his audience, then his face went completely bland.

Dean held up his hands to show he wasn't a threat, before realizing that he was still holding his home-made flamethrower in one hand and a katana in the other. Glancing left and right at his upraised hands, he said to Coulson, "Yeah, this isn't what it looks like."

The suit raised a politely disbelieving eyebrow. "Really?" he asked in a tone as dry as the Mojave Desert. Then he shook his head. "And here I just got finished explaining the K.I.S.S. Principle."

"Crap." Dean took a step back. After all, the last three people who failed to understand K.I.S.S. were unconscious on the ground.

Fortunately for Dean's continued awareness, the alley way door burst open before Coulson could make his move.

The Harionna came tearing out, her hair waving wildly around her of its own accord. Upon catching sight of a Hunter laying in wait for her, the demonic dreadlocks whipped around at him. Black tresses wrapped themselves around his neck. Dean didn't try to fight his way out of them. Instead, he pulled himself closer and swung his blessed katana as close to her scalp as he could. The Harionna screeched in dismay.

Sam Winchester appeared in the doorway behind her and rushed forward to wrap his long arms around her, buying time for Dean to unwrap his neck and set fire to the creature's shorn locks.

The Japanese creature wailed again as she vanished in a flash of fire and smoke from inside Sam's grip.

The two brothers checked each other briefly, and both nodded to the other that they were fine.

Then Dean turned back to Coulson. "So. How does the K.I.S.S. Principle hold up when you introduce the supernatural into the equation?"


	10. The KISS Principle, a Recap

**KISS Principle Part 2**

Mission Report Addendum

Following the altercation at the exit vehicle, a bystander offered his enthusiastic appreciation of my handling of the situation. This bystander stood holding a nineteenth century katana and what appeared to be a jury-rigged flamethrower made from WD-40, claiming innocence from his own illegal intentions. Before I could extend another lesson of the K.I.S.S. Principle, I was interrupted.

Said interruption took the form of a probable meta-human. Physical description: Japanese woman, 5'5'', slim build. Distinguishing features: elongated fingers and thickened fingernails to the point of claws, all teeth appeared to be variations of extra sharp incisors, and prehensile hair. Yes, hair, capable of operating as one individual appendage or up to five, observed.

A brief skirmish followed between the bystander and the meta-human culminating in the bystander removing the prehensile hair with his katana and setting the severed limb aflame with the flamethrower. This agent observed the meta-human, in complete separation by several feet of her hair, also combust as the hair burned. No accelerant was observed. No body remained. Later forensics team found no trace of ash.

The bystander and his associate explained the meta-human as a "Harionna" from Japanese folklore, claiming she was responsible for the recent strangulations in the area. Also, since the perpetrator was "ganked," the murders would stop. Upon researching this claim, no further deaths fitting this pattern have been observed since that night.

This agent was also given the "the truth is out there speech" by these men. Exact wording will be transcribed in further addendum. The synopsis is that creatures and spirits from folklore, the supernatural if you will, exist. And people calling themselves "Hunters" have dedicated their lives to defending the public from the threat these monsters represent. All volunteer; most have experienced some kind of tragic event with the supernatural.

I was then given contact information for the bystander and his associate, one Dean and Sam respectively. No last names were given. I was then instructed to contact them if I ever encounter anything else who's existence I cannot explain through scientific reasoning. No payment required.

Personal note. I am unsure that I believe in the supernatural as an explanation, given the rise in awareness of various meta-humans and alien life. However, I cannot yet account for what I saw without it.

Agent recommendation: Keep these numbers, Director. Just in case.


	11. The Kiss of the Veleda

A/N: Sorry for the gap in posting. I just got a new job that limits how much time I get to spent writing. Updates will come a lot slower from here on out.

Thanks to everyone for all the lovely reviews. They've been making my day!

 **The Kiss of the Veleda**

"Agent Carter?" Sam asked softly. "Margaret Carter?"

The elderly woman regarded Sam coolly, sharp eyes examining him and reserving judgment. "Its Mrs. Sousa now. Or Peggy, if you want to be informal."

Sam nodded, turning his puppy-dog eyes on their witness in full force, in preparation for the questioning he needed to do. "Peggy," he repeated.

Former Agent Carter arched a very British and disapproving eyebrow at him. "Young people today might want to be informal with their elders, young man, but I prefer to maintain a sense of propriety and decorum."

Sam flushed under the rebuke and looked helplessly at his brother.

Dean laughed. "Dude, she's messing with you."

Sam's gaze snapped back to their witness. Peggy's eyes were dancing with laughter, though she kept a straight face. The younger brother shook his head in surrender and ceded the interviewer's seat to Dean.

"How about I stick to "ma'am"?" Dean asked, taking up the slack. Each brother had a very specific personality type they handled best when talking to people. The game of interview hot potato was a familiar one between them.

"Oh, tag-teaming me? Lovely," Peggy teased.

Dean grinned. He loved a spunky lady. "Maybe we just thought that you'd be too much for either of us to handle alone. You've got quite a reputation, ma'am."

Peggy rolled her eyes, but a small smile betrayed her amusement. "So what can an old woman do for you gentlemen?"

"In the winter of '39, you took an assignment with a civilian outfit involving an artifact. The military thought it was advanced technology being developed. The civilian group, the Men of Letters, disagreed and insisted it was magical in nature. Do remember that?"

Peggy's eyes clouded and her stare drifted away from the men in front of her.

But Dean had seen soldiers remembering the traumas of war; he'd seen survivors suffering through flashbacks. And as bad as those moments could be, this wasn't that. No. This was something much, much worse. Something that scared the elder Winchester more than death and loss. This was Alzheimer's at its worst. Before their eyes, Margaret "Peggy" Carter-Sousa, one of the original founders of S.H.E.I.L.D faded. The woman in her skin was disoriented and confused about who was talking to her. The change was painful to watch.

Blinking, Peggy seemed to notice the man in front of her for the first time. The one with a stockily muscled frame, cropped dark blonde hair, and light eyes radiating concern. "Steve?" she asked tremulously. A shaking hand reached out to touch Dean's cheek, to prove tactility that he was real. "Steve?" she asked again, this time with a tear leaking from her eye. "But...how? Your plane went down in the Atlantic. Howard searched for months."

Swallowing painfully, Dean placed his calloused palm on her wrinkled hand and pulled it away from his face. He knew who she thought she saw, who she thought she was talking to. And it wasn't him. "Heya, Peg," he managed.

"You never made it out dancing," Peggy continued, clutching his hand tight like she would never let Steve go again. "I went. I knew... You wouldn't- couldn't-... but I hoped-." She swallowed back the lump in her throat. "You had to put it down, I know. But I've missed you so much."

"Peggy, I need you to do something for me," Dean told her, throat still tight. It surprised him how hard this was. Usually, he was a good liar and con artist when he needed information. Maybe it was because he knew what she was feeling, or rather how she felt all those years ago while listening to her love say goodbye: he knew the feeling of watching your whole world take a swan dive to his death, in order to save the rest of the world. And then having to live with it.

"Anything," Peggy breathed.

"The Men of Letters. You worked with them in 1939," Dean reminded.

"Steve? You're not cleared to know about that." Agent Carter pulled back slightly, frustration on her face. And confusion. The sharp, sassy former agent they had met when they first walked into the room fought to protect her secrets, even as her own mind worked against her.

"I know," Dean soothed. "But something went wrong with the Men of Letters and they had to tell me."

"Went wrong?" Peggy demanded, straightening up in her bed.

But before he could try to explain, her free hand dove into his jacket. Dean felt the surprisingly cold barrel of his own gun through his t-shirt directly over his heart. Her expression hardened on him. He froze.

Her mind's memories might get jumbled about what year it was, but even into her advanced age her _muscle_ memory was as sharp as ever. "Who are you?" she demanded, voice cold.

"We're Men of Letters," Dean told her, hoping she would recognize the group through whatever haze of memory she was in now. He made sure his hands stayed still and where she could see them as tried to look harmless and scholarly.

"We're trying to track down a pagan idol, called 'The Kiss of the Veleda'. According to lore, it could give its owner visions of the future," Sam added, hoping to make her take her attention and the gun off of his brother. If things went south, Dean could use all the lead time Sam could give him.

Peggy's gaze switched to Sam, but her aim never waivered. Then she seemed to look closer at the taller Hunter. "Eric? Eric Winchester? What _have_ you done with your hair?"

Dean snickered.

Shooting a dirty look at his brother, Sam answered "I like it long."

Peggy, considered 'Eric' for a moment. "It suits you, I think."

"Thanks, I thought so." This time he shot his brother a smug look.

"The Kiss of the Veleda," Dean prompted, trying to drag this conversation back to point. There was no telling how long the woman with his gun pointed at him would recognize them as friend. "You were going to arrange transport back to the states on a warship for the Men of Letters to secure stateside, but it never made it to port. Do you remember which ship?"

Peggy let the gun fall as she thought.

Quietly, gently, Dean lifted it from her fingers and stowed it in his jacket (where she'd have a harder time taking it away from him again.) Once was embarrassing enough.

Peggy's brow crinkled in thought and she stared off in the distance to collect her thoughts. Then the information flowed off her tongue, like the incident happened just yesterday. "The HMS Blanche. She hit German mines and sank in the Thames Estuary on November 13 of 1939. England made the decision to let her wreckage drift and set off as many mines as she could find. There was no salvage attempt."

"The HMS Blanche," Sam repeated. "Thank you, Agent Carter."

Peggy's eyes snapped back to her visitors. Blinking, she asked, "I'm sorry, gentlemen, I didn't notice you come in. Can I help you?"

"Sorry, ma'am, wrong room." Dean nodded at the woman and the brothers left.

Halfway down the hall, Dean remarked, "Sometimes... sometimes I think it won't be so bad."

"What won't?" Sam asked.

"Dying bloody on a hunt," Dean answered. At Sam's look, he clarified: "Before _that_ happens to us." He jerked his head back at the room they just left.

Sam found he couldn't disagree.


	12. Salty Kiss

**Salty Kiss**

Sam Wilson tumbled end over end, trying desperately to get his wings under control. Or if not true control, at least enough coordinated drag to slow down so that when he inevitably hit the ground he wouldn't instantly break every bone in his body. But his engine kept misfiring and his control was sporadic at best. He angled his body as best as he could and prayed his reverse thrusters would answer his when he hit the button. Between the counter-thrust and the wind-drag he would slow down enough to glide the rest of the way to the ground. In theory. He hoped.

At the last possible second, he folded his wings to take the landing in an acrobat's forward roll (thanks for the lessons, Barton.) Bruises were unavoidable in such a high speed impact, but he pulled off his miracle and didn't break any bones. He didn't think, anyway.

Not even when he bounced and rolled his way to body-slamming against the hubcaps of a sleek, black muscle car.

"The hell-?!" A guy exclaimed, vaulting up from the hood of his car. At a guess, the guy had been enjoying his six-pack and a sunset in the empty field.

"Run!" Wilson gasped with as much authority as he could muster. Which wasn't much. Try as he might, Wilson couldn't get his ringing head to tell his stunned, aching body to _Get Up! Move!_ The Stark computer in his head gear tracked the rogue Chitauri. The Avengers had been following up on the handful that escaped New York.

The Chitauri shrieked in the blackening sky above them and dove in for the kill.

Wilson had a moment to regret that he was bringing this random, completely innocent bystander down with him. Then the gunshots started barking.

His 'completely innocent bystander' stood confident in a shooters stance. His nickle plated pistol spat round after round; each bullet found its mark in the alien's chest and head. The man didn't even bother to flinch when the body in its bio-mechanical suit impacted and plowed a furrow through Minnesota dirt. He merely, coolly, watched the wreckage for a minute, probably to make sure it wasn't getting back up. Or to figure out what he just shot.

Only when he was sure it was over, did the guy turn to check on Wilson.

"I'm gonna ask what in the hell _that_ was in a minute," the man announced while crouching to help Wilson into a more comfortable position. "Until then, you okay?" Calloused fingers expertly probed the back of his skull to check for lumps. The other hand held three fingers in front of his nose. He didn't ask 'how many,' but the Avenger knew the concussion check drill and followed the fingers with his eyes to prove he could focus on them.

The man nodded. "A little dilation, but you'll live. Anything broke?"

"My wings," Wilson responded immediately. That's why he fell out of the sky, after all. A moment later he added, "My pride."

The guy snorted. "Pride heals. Then he offered a hand up. "And unless you're the weirdest looking angel I've ever seen, and buddy, that is setting the bar pretty high, I'm betting those wings are mechanical. Which means they can be fixed."

"Seen many angels?" Wilson laughed and allowed the guy to haul him up.

"Too damn many," he admitted tiredly. Even more heavily, he added, "And one too few."

It was a strange answer. At the same time, one that was all too familiar to the soldier. It was an answer laced with grief and loss. And guilt. He heard the same echos in the voices of every man and woman to come through the VA clinic looking for help.

"I'm Sam Wilson. Thanks for the save."

The guy shook himself out of his melancholy. "Dean Winchester. You're welcome. So..." he gestured to the crater. "I said I'd ask. What the hell is that?"

"Alien," Wilson answered blandly, mostly to see how the guy would take the news.

"No shit?" Dean grinned. "This calls for a beer. I ganked my first E.T." So saying, the man peeled a twelve ounce can off of a six-pack and tossed one to Wilson before cracking one open for himself. "Cheers."

All kinds of warnings about mixing concussions and alcohol rattled around in Wilson's head. But the social worker/ PTSD counselor in him knew that if he snubbed the red can of alcohol, he killed any chance of this guy opening up about whatever was weighing on him. Since the guy did literally just save his life, the least he could do was offer an understanding ear.

Until Wilson read the label on the can. "Salty Kiss? What kind of beer is this?"

"Its European. A buddy of mine gave me a pack to say thanks for backing him up on a job. Said it was the 'best brew on the seven seas'." Dean swallowed a gulp and made a face at the can. "Of course, Benny is on a, uh, _liquid_ diet these days and probably has crap for taste buds anymore."

 _Liquid diet? Alcoholic or traumatic injury?_ Wilson wondered, but didn't say. Instead he asked, "Not that I'm not really lucky that you happened to be sitting in an empty field, at night, alone, drinking beer but...? Why?"

He shrugged. "Needed some fresh air. Ever since I got back..." he trailed off.

"The bed's too soft," Wilson finished for him. "It feels like its trying to swallow you."

"And the ceiling's too close," Dean admitted before slugging back some more beer. "And the room's too small. I can't hear what's sneaking up on me, 'cuz everything's too close. The walls, the ceiling. Everything."

"You know," Wilson began tentatively, "If you ever need to talk about it, or just be around people who know what you're going through, there are support groups." The guy opened his mouth to argue, but Wilson didn't let him interrupt. "Not a shrink. Just other people who know where you've been. I run one out of D.C."

Dean grimaced. "I ain't U.S. military. Wouldn't seem right."

 _Not military? Then where did you learn to shoot under pressure like that?_

"Dude, you just saved my ass," Wilson reminded him. "If you're ever in D.C., I'll make an exception."

Dean laughed, small and quiet, but laughed.

"Look," Wilson continued. "Every one who's been through some kind of hell comes back with baggage. Its up to each of us to decide how much we can carry. And how much we let others help us. I'm just saying, you ever need help. If the load gets heavy and you need someone to sit in a field with and throw back a few beers, call me."

Wilson extended one of his VA business cards to the man.

Slowly, amazingly, the guy actually took it.

Suddenly, Dean's head jerked, focusing on the night sky. After a beat, he cocked his head listening. "Gear like yours, you're probably working for one of those weird alphabet soup agencies, like S.H.E.I.L.D or something. So, I'm guessing the low flyer coming in fast is your ride?"

"Probably."

"Okay, then, I'm out. Nice to meet you and all, but your fellow feds can take over the concussion checks. I don't want to be around when they go all Men in Black on E.T. over there and flashy-thing me or something." So saying, Dean creaked his car door open.

"You know that's not real, right?" Wilson laughed.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean scoffed. "That is a risk I am not willing to take."

"Okay, well, you got my card. Think about it, alright?" Wilson pleaded.

Dean nodded. "No promises."

Then the black car turned over and drove off into the night. (Without turning on its lights, the paranoid bastard.)


	13. Kiss the Bearded Lady

**Kiss the Bearded Lady**

" _You're going after them?"_

" _Correct, Agent Hill."_

" _Doctor, what happens if_ you _don't wake up either?"_

" _If we are not awake in twenty-four hours, kindly put out bodies on life support as well."_

" _And then?"_

" _Find another expert on the supernatural."_

" _What Wong said."_

 _..._

Two days later

…

"So, all of the Avengers, the _freaking Avengers_ , didn't wake up a few days ago." Dean Winchester stood in the Avengers compound surrounded by hospital beds. Ten hospital beds:Director Fury, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Captain America, Falcon, Incredible Hulk, Ironman, Thor, Dr. Strange and his fellow sorcerer Wong. Each one beeping out the cadence of steady vital sign, indicating all was well with the occupant. Except, of course, for the fact that none of them could wake up.

Maria Hill had tried. Repeatedly. (She might even have hurt her hand trying to slap him out of a little too enthusiastically in Tony Stark's case, but that was between her and her stinging hand.)

"Okay, that's definitely our kind of thing," Sam Winchester allowed. He looked up from the medical charts he had been flipping through. "But how did S.H.E.I.L.D. know to contact us?"

"Your names and contact information were in our files," Maria answered unhelpfully. At the brothers' twin expectant looks, she relented on the spy routine enough to add, "Agent Phil Coulson. You killed something called a 'harionna' in front of him and then gave him your fake FBI business card."

Dean didn't bother to look abashed at her censure for using fake credentials. "And two days ago the, ah, sorcerer you have on payroll astral projected himself out into the veil to get your people back. Except he won't wake up now, either."

"Essentially," Maria agreed. "So. Can you... Hunters?.. astral project as well?"

"Uh..." Sam stalled before giving a definite answer. Because they technically could, but they only knew how with help from a psychic like Pamela... or dying.

Dean saved him from that explanation, though. "Not gonna. I mean we could dreamroot into somebody else's melon, but we won't until we know what we're dealing with and how to gank the thing. Whatever this is, it likes to trap whoever goes looking for it. Before we do anything, we need intel."

"Sounds reasonable. But Dr. Strange," Maria gestured at the unconscious man in eastern robes, "said there was no way of identifying the problem from here."

Dean nodded. "We've run across a few things that could do something like this, but yeah, it can be real tricky from this side of the dreamworld." The Hunter bent and began to rummage in his duffle. "But, Mr. Magic there should know what he's dealing with by know. Which means all we gotta do is ask him."

"Ask the unconscious man. Who can't talk." Maria looked back and forth, trying to decide if she was missing something.

Dean straightened up holding a bowl and some candles. "Wherever he is, he's a disembodied spirit right now. We can summon his astral ass back here. And Wong's, too. Because no party is complete without a little extra Wong action. And, you know, I'm sure the good doctor loves his Wong."

Maria could have let all the double-entendre jokes slide, if it weren't for the stupid middle school grin on the grown man's face. She was glad to see the taller brother with the same 'knock it off' glare.

Dean's grin faltered and disappeared. "Wow, bitchface in stereo," he muttered as the brothers got to work painting two of the same spirit summoning sigil on the floor in the center of the room, side by side.

Maria had to admit, hearing their deep voices chant out the latin ceremony almost in sync and slightly in harmony with each other sent a small shiver up and down her spine. It was eerie; there was an undeniable undercurrent of power in their voices, despite the brightly lit hospital wing and the blue collar appearance of the men.

And that was before the twin flares of light and the sudden appearance of the sorcerers. Both men where yelling, but it was hard to tell whether it was a yell of pain, rage or fright.

"Don't make me kiss the bearded lady again!" Stephan bellowed, cringing away from Dean (the most stubbled man there). He cringed so far back that he bounced off the line of the sigil holding him to the plane. "What the-? Why am I stuck?"

Wong knelt inside his own sigil to examine it closer.

"You are stuck, because the only thing keeping you here instead of wherever you just were, is the magic circle you are standing in," Sam told him.

Strange looked down. "What kind of spellwork is this?"

"You still have so much to learn," Wong sighed and shook his head. "There are many kinds of magic in the world, Doctor. Some more dangerous, some more difficult. We tap into the energies of the universe through application of will. These tap into those energies through ingredient and ritual. Different magic, yes, but no less effective."

"Okay, thank you for the magic lesson," Dean interrupted. "But lets cut to the chase, shall we? What are we dealing with here? My money was on a pagan god."

"I voted for Japanese baku," Sam offered.

"And our left field idea was a psychic kid having nightmares and wanting the Avengers to protect him," Dean added.

"Its Nightmare." Strange shuddered, still trying to shake off the residual fear of the dream.

"Okay, you're having nightmares. Are they yours or someone else's? Are the dreams things from your mind?" Sam asked. "That would help us narrow it down."

"His name is Nightmare," Strange told them dryly, as though how dare they accuse him of being tripped up by something as mundane as bad dreams. "He's a demon that feeds on a sleeper's fear, capable of imprisoning a human's astral form to torture them."

"A demon?" Dean repeated with a smile. "Awesome. That makes it easy."

"Easy?!" Strange sputtered. "This thing is holding all these people hostage."

"Yeah, but demons have to follow the rules," Dean told him. "Since we know his name, we can summon the black-eyed bastard and have this done in time for lunch."

Sam pulled out a can of spray paint while Dean set up another ritual.

Strange and Wong were fascinated enough by the workings, that they stayed quiet to watch.

Dean said the final words of the incantation and dropped the match.

An incredibly white skinned man with a shock of hair so black it almost shimmered an iridescent green appeared out of nowhere, directly in the five point star. He looked around his feet and snarled. Bed pans began to rattle and instruments flew across the room.

Out of reflex, Maria Hill shot him three times. It didn't do anything but make it laugh.

"Dear, dear Stephan," the demon cooed, its voice silky smooth. "I had wondered were you got off to. But of course, if there are souls escaping from a hell dimension, there are Winchesters behind it." He made a show of looking around himself. "Where's Crowley? I half expected your little pet king of hell to be here: scolding me for being a naughty boy and telling me to back off."

"We summoned you, to **kill** you. That's kinda our thing." Dean wiggled the angel blade in reminder.

Dr. Strange scoffed. "You can't kill demons. You can only keep them at bay."

"Watch me." So saying, the Hunter stabbed the demon quick through the heart with an angel blade.

The sorcerers vanished from their respective summoning circles.

The Avengers all woke up with a gasp.

 **Stay tuned for Part 2: The Awakening!**


	14. The Final Kiss

Maria Hill rushed over to her boss, helping him sit up. Fury shook his head to clear out the cobwebs. (They were nightmare laced cobwebs, but you'd never know it to look at his expression, since 'angry' was kind of his default expression.)

"Agent, report," Fury ordered.

"You and the Avengers were all under the influence of some sort of psychic attack," Maria reported dutifully. "Dr. Strange and his associate were called, but fell into the same trap. Following Agent Coulson's recommendation, I contacted Sam and Dean for help."

The full weight of the Avenger's attentions landed on the pair of Hunters. It didn't take long for most of them developed this odd look, like there was something niggling in the back of their heads but they didn't quite know why.

Sam and Dean lifted their chins and held under the scrutiny. They'd faced down the scariest monsters hatred before, they could hold up under the Avenger's regard.

Sam Wilson was the first to recover. "Hey hey! I thought you got spooked around feds. Aren't you scared we're gonna flashy-thing you after all this?"

Dean looked over and laughed. "Hey, Chicken Wings! How's the pride?"

"Recovering. Still recovering," Wilson admitted. "And the 'Chicken Wings' commentary isn't helping."

"Yeah, well," Dean actually looked a little sheepish. "I woulda come up with something better if I knew you were a freaking Avenger, man."

"Great, so from now on its 'Falcon.' Okay?"

Sam Winchester elbowed his brother. "If you're too shy to ask them for autographs, I can do it for you. I know you've got your Avengers T-shirt on under the flannel."

Dean slugged his brother in the arm and hissed, "Dude! Can it!"

"Pow, right in the kisser," Steve Rodgers repeated the old line, remembering a lecture on handling motorcycle clubs and especially the painful punch to the arm to emphasize the point. That guy's punch. "We _have_ met. You stopped the bar brawl by holding a motorcycle hostage."

Dark blonde eyebrows scrunched as their owner dredged up an old memory. "Wait, that was you? But that guy was a dweeb, a fun dweeb, but still..."

Sam Wilson snickered.

Steve didn't pout, that would be dweebish. Here he was, a hundred pounds of muscle heavier and had saved the planet, and he was still a dweeb? Bucky would be laughing his head off if he were here.

Oblivious to Steve's thoughts, Dean continued, "Okay, a dweeb that held his own against a ton of bikers. That should have been a tip off. Sammy! I saved Captain America's ass in a barfight!" The shit-eating grin was huge.

Sam knew it wouldn't come off for days. His rubbed his head to stave off the impending migraine. "Let me guess, the waitress was hot?"

The happy grin morphed into something a little more carnal.

It was that second grin that finally tipped the balance in Natalie's own memory, which had been itching since she woke up. "A monster hunter, that would explain the skill set," she muttered. Louder, she admitted, "We've met as well. Twice, actually... well, once and a half."

"Once and a half?" Stark demanded. "How does that work?"

Natalie caught Clint's eye. "I figure hauling you back to a safe house while you're unconscious only counts as half."

Clint's brow creased then cleared as his brain kicked out the scene. In his defense, it had been almost a decade since he last saw the guy.

Meanwhile, Dean had done some remembering of his own. "Kiss Me, Kate!"

Black Widow, international assassin, narrowed her eyes in displeasure. She hated The Taming of the Shrew. In her opinion, the so-called shrew didn't need taming; she needed weaponry.

Dean pointed at Clint. "He dared me to."

Nat turned on her friend slowly.

Clint pointed at Dean. "He said it first."

Before violence could erupt, Tony demanded, "Care to share with the class?"

Nat shrugged. "He helped me out once, I returned the favor a year later."

"Not too long after, I tripped over the kid when I tried to set up a sniper position where he already had," Clint added.

"And I got the drop on you," Dean reminded with a touch of pride. He looked at Sam. "I totally got the drop on _Hawkeye_!"

Clint glared. "Then _I_ took the shot that saved your dad when you and your _antique_ weren't up to the job."

Dean scowled right back. "I could have made the shot, Double-O Douchebag."

"Whatever you got to tell yourself," Clint needled with a smirk. Fairness made him add, "You were right about the S.H.E.I.L.D badge, though. I made myself fake NSA credentials and people hopped-to a lot faster. To the _fake,_ " Clint emphasized. "Who knew."

"Fake ID," Bruce murmured to himself. Then louder said, "Fake ID. You were that guy. You gave me a cup of coffee, a lift, and my first fake ID."

Dean looked blank.

Wryly, Bruce added, "After we got to Kissing."

"Bruce, you dog!" Tony exclaimed. "You never told me you swung that way. I'm hurt, I tell you. Hurt. Did you think anyone here would care? We embrace giant, green Hulks of any personal orientation."

Bruce ignored Tony. So did most of the room.

Dean clapped Banner on the back. "Bruce Springsteen! Damn, you're looking better these days."

"Sprinsteen?" Tony repeated. "You gave him a fake ID claiming to be named 'Bruce Springsteen' and that worked?"

"Quote: 'My parents were huge fans'." Bruce answered dryly, echoing Dean's answer when he asked the same question all that time ago.

Dean shrugged. "People never believe you would try to pull that off as a con. But once, I tried being John Smith, and we ended up washing dishes at a surprising number of mom and pop diners that year until the new set of fake cards came in."

At the words 'mom and pop diner' something clicked in the Directors memory. "We've met as well. Briefly." From the look on the yokel's face, he didn't remember the incident. "You gave me some fashion advice about hats and sunglasses."

Dean continued to look blank then shrugged. "If you say so."

"Fashion advice?!" Tony sputtered. "From the guy dressed like a lumberjack in NYC? That's like... like..."

"Like wearing a suit to a KISS concert?" Dean supplied helpfully. Hopefully. This was one Avenger he knew he'd met before.

"Exactly! Like wearing a suit-" Tony stopped mid rant, brain catching up with his mouth. "That was you."

Dean grinned. "It was a hell of a party."

"You rack-jacked me!" Tony growled in outrage.

Dean's grin widened. "I did, didn't I?"

Tony glowered at him.

"Dude, relax," Dean admonished. "I only did that because she was a succubus. Fifty/fifty she would have eaten you alive. Literally."

That shut Tony up.

"Wait, wait, wait," Dr. Strange held up his hands in a classic sports time-out sign. "Everybody here knows this guy except me and the Asgardian?"

Thor clapped a heavy hand on Dr. Strange's shoulder, causing him to stagger slightly. "I do not know these men personally, but all of Asgard knows _**of**_ the Brothers Winchester! My father declared a week of celebrations and feasting when these great men stopped the Aesir Ragnorok. You have not seen such a party as the one held on that day! Later, we will all drink and you will tell me how you escaped from the Pit."

"Deal!" Dean exclaimed with a smile.

"So everyone but me and Wong, then." Strange did not let go of his complaint.

"Doctor, still so much to learn. You should know," Wong scoffed. "I showed you their books. All one hundred and fifty of them. On their own shelf in the library."

Strange blinked. "Those trashy, penny-dreadfuls? Half of them are computer printouts that you bound together yourself. I thought you were joking when you told me to read them."

"Do us a favor and don't read them," Sam groaned.

"Actually, do us a favor and burn them," Dean corrected. "In fact, if you want to do a huge favor in return for, you know, saving your lives; burn all of them. Every copy, everywhere. Then delete the rest from the internet. And while you're at it, delete all the fan fiction, too. Can you do that?"


End file.
